South Park Nine Lives
by TajiYami
Summary: Kenny's POV The thing I hated the most about dying from terminal illness is that it hurts everyone else around me too. The last thing I ever wanted was a repeat. . . CHp3 up
1. The Life & Times of One Kenny McKormick

_Someone once asked me if it was scary, to think about dying, to worry if it was going to hurt, or come in the still of the night while you slept? Or if it were going to take a long time, and eat away at you until there was nothing left to take, and then allow you to pass on? Well, first I told them that no, most of the time I don't really even have a chance to feel scared before I die, and to worry about it is a waste of my time here. Admittedly there have been numerous cases I have wound up literally shitting myself before I died because I had the time. You can imagine Cartman's taunting after one of those death scenes. I do have nightmares about some of my deaths, but I don't choose to dwell on them. If I had to chose a way to die, it would be with some adventure or excitement to it, something I can go to hell laughing about. Dying after a long drawn out ordeal is the worst, because every second that brings me closer to it steals away part of my resolve and soul. The thing I hated the most about dying from terminal illness is that it hurts everyone else around me too. The last thing I ever wanted was a repeat. . . _

**South Park**

**Nine Lives**

**Chapter 1 – The Life and Times of One**

**Kenny McKormick**

(Kenny's POV)

Hi, my name is Kenny McKormick. I'm 15 years old, and I live in the quaint town of South Park, Colorado. My house is little more than a shack on the other side of the train tracks in the bad part of town, or as my friend Eric likes to say, the ghetto. Every day starts out the same in my house. There is bickering between my parents, squabbles between me and my brother over the select few frozen waffles, and my sister curled up in her corner, hardly making her existence known. God, half the time I don't even realize she's around until I trip over her. The wrestling match over the waffles usually ends in my bitter defeat, and I end up trudging to the bus stop both hungry and sore.

Here's some things I have learned over the years. Usually it goes like this in the morning at the bus stop. I arrive last, and by the time I get there, I have missed one of two things, either Eric and my other friend Kyle kicking each other's asses over something dealing with religion or the size of Eric's gut, or Eric making fun of me behind my back, and offering up bets on how I would die today. Once to win a bet he lit me on fire, watched me run around screaming until I died, then collected however much the other guys owed him. I hate death by fire, I hate it so much.

After that, there is the bus ride to school. The driver's a bitch. School itself is a waste of time, though I do like art class, and lunch of course. That was the only time during the day I got to see all my friends. Oh wait, no, check that. Stan is in my eighth hour, but he sits on the other side of the room. After school, I usually end up hanging out with my friends, which as of late has involved watching football tryouts. That was fun until Eric tackled me into the bleachers. All in all, my life is rather boring. Well, except for the whole dying every other day, visiting heaven and hell frequently, and coming back to South Park the very next day.

So why did today feel so damn different?

A loud crash sounded in the living room, shattering my dreams and bringing me back to the world of the wakeful living. My eyes scanned the room quickly, telling me that I was alone, and that it was still dark outside. A lone snowflake floated down from the ceiling and landed on my nose. The holes in my ceiling gave me a clear view of the darkened sky above, the pureness only broken by stray snow flakes flitting in and out of sight, and infiltrating my room. My body shivered involuntarily and I sat up, draping my blanket around my shoulders, and searching the floor for my pants. I could see in the dim light of the room the small white cloud of steam that was my breath forming rapidly and dissipating in front of my face. "Damn, it's cold." When I finally located my pants, I shook them out, forcing out the rat that had taken to them to sleep for the night. he wasn't all too happy and ended up biting my hand. "Ah, you little fuck, see if I ever share my waffles with you again," I snapped at the creature as it scurried off to go hide itself. I pulled my pants on with one hand, the other securely in my mouth, in a lame attempt to stop the bleeding and soothe some of the pain from the bite.

I could see their glittering eyes as I tiptoed to the door of my room and listened. It sounded like my dad in another drunken fit, only just coming home after a good long night at the bar. Feeling it best just to avoid the whole thing, I quickly got back into bed and did my best to fall back asleep. That was when I noticed it, the change. It was very minute, so hard to pinpoint, but I knew deep down something was horribly wrong. I didn't get a chance to dwell on it too long because I slipped back into slumber mode.

My dreams were haunted by memories, most of which were pre-death scenes. One in particular stuck out for me though. It was when I had gotten sick when I was 9, and died. For some reason, my mind kept remembering how sad it made everyone, and how sad I had been I didn't get to say goodbye to some of them, including Stan. I woke up feeling cold, the sound of my cheap alarm clock blaring by my head, as though the louder it was the more likely it would be that I would come out of my near comatose state. I knocked the annoying thing to the floor, causing it sudden death, and I rolled over in bed. "So tired. . ." I mumbled softly, working up the motivation to get up.

A whole five minutes later, all I had managed to accomplish was flipping over in bed a couple of times, before finally getting into a sitting position. Finally I got to my feet, and stumbled to the bathroom, only to run smack into the closed door. "Damnit Kevin! Hurry up and get your sorry ass out of the bathroom! And you better not be taking a shit in there!"

"Shut the hell up in there! If ya gotta piss so bad, use a fuckin' bush!" I hear my dad roar from the living room. I bite my tongue and look in the direction of his voice. I could tell by the subtle slur in his voice that he was suffering a hangover, and probably had one hell of a headache, best to not piss him off. I was leaning rather heavily on the door when it opened, and I ended up falling inside, landing hard on the floor. "Son of a bitch," I hissed, and then looked up at my little sister, who was just staring wide eyed at me. I let out a sigh, and got back to my feet, "Get outta here. I gotta take a leak," I mumbled and closed her out of the room. After doing my business, I stood in front of the broken mirror for a moment, and ruffled my hand through my messy blonde hair. Man, do I look tired, I thought to myself, looking back at my half closed light blue eyes. "I gotta get a hair cut again." I made sure to clean off some of the dirt smudges that seemed to be way too attracted to my pale ghost white skin, and left the bathroom to go get dressed.

I pulled on a loose black tee-shirt, and then my parka. This one was a new one that the guys got me a couple months back since my orange one was small and falling apart. It was orange with black and white stripes on the sleeves and sides. It was a little big, but it was warm, and I could appreciate that. I left my room after grabbing my bag, and walked through the living room. Dad was sleeping on the couch, snoring noisily with an icepack in one hand and a S'more Schnapps in the other. Figures. "I'm gonna eat later, see ya," I called from the door, and stepped outside. I close the door, and snicker softly to myself as I hear a stray bottle of alcohol smash against the closed wood barrier.

As soon as I stepped on the path leading away from the house, I felt dread in the pit of my stomach, the kind of dread I always felt right before I died. I wasn't even to the train tracks yet when the pain started, first starting in my legs and arms and quickly traveling through my whole being. I thought I was being electrocuted. Electrocution was faster though, and there wasn't anything near here to get electrocuted on. Finally, the pain hit my chest, and my breath seized, and I went down to my hands and knees in the snow. _Oh God, what the hell is this?_ I thought, my breath nothing more then ragged, pained gasps. Everything seemed out of focus and dark. I could hear voices, but they were distorted and so far away. Then there was nothing.

---------------------------

I could hear someone crying, sounded like my mom.

I winced slightly, and cracked my eyes open. I could feel a hand brushing through my hair, and I shook my head slightly. I hated it when people did that, even if they are my mom. "Mom, why are you crying?" I asked, wincing again at the sound of my voice. It sounded so strained, and it was almost painful to speak.

"Kenny, yer awake, thank God," she said, pulling me into an awkward hug, "the doctor told us you might not wake up at all, but you showed him didn't ja?" I looked straight ahead, wondering what happened, and why she would be freaking out so much, then just figured that was how she was, and placed my hand on her arm in a lame attempt at returning her hug.

"It's ok mom, I'm up now. What happened?" Man was it hard to talk, and I could tell I was wearing a breathing mask.

Mom pulled away and looked me in the eyes, though hers didn't stay on mine and kept shifting as though she were scared to talk to me. Finally, she flinched slightly "they said you had another one of yer seizures Kenny."

"Seizure? That was no seizure mom." _She's lying to me?_

She shifted nervously, then looked up at Dr. Doctor came into the room, looking over a chart. "Ah, I see he's woken up after all."

"Maybe you can tell me what is going on here?" I ask.

"Perhaps. There are still some tests I want to run, but as a preliminary analysis, I am afraid things don't look good." _What else is new?_ "It appears that you suffered a mild heart attack, Kenny, though the reasons why are still being tested."

"A HEART ATTACK?" I blurted out, then immediately regretted it as my yell hurt not only my voice, but also just about everything else. My chest felt like fat Cartman was sitting on it. I gulped back a sob and laid back against my pillow, gasping like a fish out of water.

"I'm afraid so," the doctor continued, "you really shouldn't strain yourself though. Mrs. McKormick, may I speak with you outside a moment?"

"Of course," she said and stood up, "You stay right here baby, I'll be right back." I nod and she leaves after the doctor. The door closes behind her, and from where I was laying, I could see shadows through the crack where the door met the floor. Three sets of shadows, dad must have been there too. I leaned back against my pillow, tentatively fingering the breathing mask I was wearing. It seemed so surreal, impossible really, but then again, so was dying multiple times and coming back the next day.

I looked up from my thoughts when I heard my mom let out a wail of sobs. _That can't be good_, I thought to myself. I pushed myself up a little, to hopefully catch wind of what they were saying, but the door and the fact the doctor was talking way too softly muffled the words too much to decipher. Sitting propped up as I was started hurting incredibly and I laid back down.

I must have dozed off because when I opened my eyes, it was dark outside, and I was alone in my hospital room. Someone had been in there because there were flowers on the little table next to my bed which had not been there before. I reached out and pulled out the little card that was stuck in amongst them and held it out in front of me. scratched on the inside was three distinct hand-written notes:

_You bettah get well soon or else I'll kick you in the nuts; Eric_

_Don't listen to Cartman, he's a sorry fat ass! But you get to feeling better ok? You were sleeping when we came by, we'll be back tomorrow; Kyle_

_Try to get better soon Kenny, we miss you; Stan_

I could almost imagine the three of them standing around the bed, passing the note around to sign it, Eric and Kyle fighting and Stan trying to get them to shut up. I was amazed them being there didn't wake me up. I set the note down on my chest, a faint smile on my face. For all the times they didn't really seem to notice me, they always seemed to pull off something that convinced me that they really did care.

True to their word, at about 3:45, Kyle, Eric and Stan all came into my room. Kyle and Eric were fighting over something, which from the sound of their argument stemmed from the usual 'Fat ass vs. oppressed Jews'.

"Hey, you guys," I said softly. My voice was almost back to normal today, but I still sounded a bit groggy.

"So what the hell is wrong with you this time Kennah?" Cartman blurred out, disregarding his argument with Kyle for a moment. True to his word, Cartman had indeed finally grew into his body. His fat had been replaced by muscle, and he was one of the more popular freshman, even amongst the upperclassmen girls. He had recently cut his light brown hair and had it spiked, and his brown eyes were almost a mix of worry, almost.

Kyle made a face, "the doctor already told us they don't know what's wrong with him." Kyle had stayed the smallest of the four of us, and next to Cartman, he looked rather puny. He was one of the smartest kids in South Park, but he was no athlete, nor was he as popular with the ladies as yours truly, or Stan and Cartman. He was wearing his _ushanka_, one which he had bought before school started that was grey rather than his usual green. Small curls of red hair were peeking out underneath the fabric and spiraling across his forehead. His green eyes were ablaze, still showing the affects of his quarrel with Cartman.

"Doctors are fuckin' liars. They lie to get more money."

"I don't think you can argue there," I said with a smirk.

"This isn't like before right? You're not really that sick, right Kenny?" Stan said softly, a saddened look on his face. He was holding his poof-ball hat in his hands, wringing it out. Of all of us, he had made off with the best luck. He was a star athlete through elementary and middle school, was on the foot ball team, and had a steady girlfriend, plus the entire female student body was lusting after him. I'd be willing to bet part of the male student body was too. His raven black hair was hanging messily in his face, and his dark blue eyes held his sadness clear to see.

I looked back at him confused for a moment before remembering when I was nine. I had been really sick, and died. My last memory of that life was Stan not being there, and I left asking for him. I winced, realizing that was where this was heading, then smiled at him reassuringly. "I don't know what's going on really. They haven't told me much. They did tell me this morning though that I can go home by Friday if I keep improving."

"That's great dude!" Kyle said.

"Yeah," Stan said, relieved, then he looks down at the note they had left, which I had placed on the nightstand next to me. "So you got our notes huh?"

"Yeah, I thought it was kinda gay," I said with a grin. We all shared a good laugh, and Cartman started telling about how he managed to manipulate one of his teachers into not giving him any homework for the rest of the year, and wait on him hand and foot.

True to the word of the doctor, I was released come Friday. . .

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Please read and review, chapter two will be out soon!


	2. Easier to Run

**South Park**

**Nine Lives**

**Chapter 2 – Easier to Run**

(Kenny's POV)

Yes, it was true, I had gotten released from the hospital, and I felt just fine too. The only thing was, as soon as I got home Friday afternoon, I noticed that my mom was being very emotional, and my father wasn't going off to get drunk like usual. There was this nagging feeling in the back of my mind telling me something was wrong, but I ignored it. Kyle, the bastard, had been kind (cruel) enough to collect some of the homework I had missed, and dropped it off at the house on the way home to his place. Rather than actually do it though, I followed him outside. My parents acting the way they were was starting to make the whole house feel cramped to the point of unbearably uncomfortable.

"We're going over to the lake," Kyle said as we were walking towards the bus stop to meet up with the other guys, "Stan's Uncle Jimbo just got a new boat, and we're gonna check it out."

"Sweet," I said softly. I didn't really care too much, mostly because with my track record, I would probably get crushed to death before we ever make it there. I smirked at the thought, and continued following until we reached the bus stop.

"Ah hell, where did they go?" Kyle said, looking back and forth down the street, "I bet they went on without us."

"It's not like it's that far," I said, putting my hands in my pocket, and starting to walk in the general direction of the lake. I froze, mid-step, just as a car went speeding by, narrowly missing me. "Come on," I said, un-phased. Kyle was staring at me, then his eyes followed the car that had just sped by. He shrugged and started following me.

It took us about twenty minutes to reach the lake on foot, and as Kyle had thought, Stan and Cartman were already there with Ned. "Hey you guys," I called out to them.

"Oh, hey Kenny," Stan said. His mood seemed a little brighter than it had when I was in the hospital. "So, where's the boat?" Kyle asked, but Stan only shrugged

"Leave it to somethin' big, shineh and expensive ta bring the poor guy off his death bed," Cartman said snidely.

"Shut up fat fuck," I snorted back. He balled his fists, "Na-uh, you can't hit me. The doctor said nothing too stressful, remember? I think getting socked by a fat-fuck might be too stressful for my fragile little body."

"Ey, stop callin' me fat!" Our laughter and his frustration was drowned out by the sound of a boat's motor, and we all looked out over the lake.

A large red and white fishing boat sped up close to the docks, nearly spraying everyone with water, and soaking me. Stan, Kyle and Cartman were all standing there in awe, staring back at the red behemoth, and I wrung some water out of my hoodie. Stan's uncle Jimbo was at the controls, "Hey boys," he said with a short wave, "Come on and get on the boat. We got plenty of time before dark to see what this baby can do."

"How the hell did you afford this Uncle Jimbo?" Stan asked finally, breaking the silence between us.

"It's called a credit card Stan, and about forty years of debt and interest payments. Now, come on." He maneuvered the boat so that we could get on, and then pulled away from the docks.

In no time we were speeding across the water, "She handles like a dream," Jimbo yelled over the sound of the motor and water. I had moved to the back of the boat and was watching the wake behind us, wondering if ever in the history of this lake had it seen anyone boating this insanely fast or reckless. Finally, after about ten minutes of stirring up the lake, Jimbo pulled the boat into a slower pace.

"Hey, what do you boys say we take a break for a minute," Jimbo said, opening up a cooler and taking out a beer. He tossed it to Ned, and took one for himself. "Sorry boys, I think you're still a little too young."

"You know what you guys, I heard that it's bad luck to have Jews on boats. That was why the Titanic sunk." Cartman said, "We should toss Kyle overboard before he makes this boat sink and we all freeze to death in the bitter cold."

"Shut up Cartman, the Titanic sunk because of an iceberg and faulty design work, it had nothing to do with Jews. You're just lucky you haven't sunk the boat yet, you stupid fat ass!" Kyle retorted.

Cartman stood up suddenly shouting, "I said don't call me fat, you damn Jew rat!" and didn't notice me next to the motor until I had already lost my footing and fell into the water next to the spinning blades. "Hehe, oops," I heard him say as I hit the cold, dark water. I let out a yell underwater as the propeller sliced into my left shoulder and arm, but luckily, I wasn't dragged further into the spinning blades. _Hey, I'm not dead yet,_ I thought to myself as I got back to the surface. The water all around me was darkening red.

"Oh my God, Fat Ass killed Kenny!" Stan exclaimed.

"You bastard!" Kyle added.

"No, I'm alright," I said, choking on some of the lake water that was invading my lungs.

"See, I didn't kill 'im," Cartman retorted, "He's just fine."

"Hang on, Kenny, we'll get you out," Jimbo said and tossed a rope out to me. the rope fell about six feet short. I started swimming towards it, and heard Ned's mechanized voice, "I think you need a bigger rope," "Oh, never mind that Ned, see, he's swimming for it. Good job Kenny, now we'll just pull you out."

About 10 minutes, three close encounters with the propeller, two rocks, and a snapped rope later, I was back on the boat, thoroughly soaked and shivering. The propeller had cut up my arm and shoulder, but other than that I was fine. "We maeh have to take that arm," Cartman said with a snicker as Jimbo was doing his best to patch up the injury.

"Well, I think you'll be alright," Jimbo said, looking over his work, "but, it's getting' dark now, so hows about we call it a night boys?"

---------------------------

The sun had already ducked behind the mountains as I was walking home, half my trek made in the dark. The air grew colder and I felt myself shivering under the thin, still slightly damp fabric of my clothing. "Ten to one says I'm sick in the morning," I mumbled to myself. My house came into sight, and I stopped before the tracks, just in time to watch a train go speeding by. I watched the train cars pass me, waited until it was clear and hopped across the tracks, "two, one," then looked over my shoulder in time to see the next train go shooting past on the opposite tracks. _Hah! Nailed it_, I thought to myself, and walked up to my front door. The door was unlocked, so I let myself in and quietly shut the door behind me.

Dad wasn't passed out on the couch or floor, and mom was no where to be seen. I stepped around the corner, and heard voices coming from my parents room, and I was going to ignore it until I heard my name and my mom sobbing. If mom was crying and they were talking about me, then maybe I could get a hint as to what happened. No one at the hospital had told me, so I figured this was my chance. I sat down by their closed door and placed my ear against the chilled thin wood.

". . we can't lose him again, not like this," I heard my mom say in between sobs.

"The doctors already said there is nothing they can do. Even if we could afford the treatments, it's terminal. There's nothing that can be done," my father said, his voice was hushed, but I could heard the aggravation riding it. they must have been bantering on like this for a while. _Wait? Terminal?_

"We can't lose him, we just can't. Two months isn't anywhere near enough time with 'im. There must be some way to save our little Kenny." I felt my whole body go numb.

"Well there's not, and I'm getting sick of going around in circles with you over this. I'm going out!"

"Fine, you do that. Go drink you fuckin' life away! But when you sober up and realize yer son is dead, don't drag your sorry ass back here cryin' ta me!"

I scuffled back, getting to my feet and ducked into my room, just as my father opened the door to their bedroom. He slammed the door, which nearly snapped it from it's hinges, and stormed off to the front door, swearing under his breath. I peeked out just enough to see him rubbing tears from his eyes. Then he left.

I stood in the doorway to my room for what felt like a short eternity, chills running through my body. I could hear the muffled sound of my mother crying, but couldn't bring myself to go offer any comfort. I felt almost betrayed. Before I even registered what I was doing, I was outside, my destination was no where in particular, and I was walking on auto-pilot and emotions alone. Hot tears were threatening me, stinging my eyes. _Something is wrong with me, something is wrong! And they didn't tell me! _My pace quickened until it was a run, my eyes were mostly shut and the world around me was just a blur seen through tear blinded eyes.

Part of me just wanted to curl up and cry away the pain, like my mother, the other part just wanted to run forever. That desire ended quickly however, as I ran blindly into a tree. "What's happening to me?" I choked out at the night sky, sobbing as I lay on my back in the light blanket of snow and pine needles. "Why won't they tell me?"

I lay there for a long time, finally getting too tired to cry anymore, and listening to the sounds of the forest and my own heart beat. By the time I finally forced myself back to my feet, I was shivering horribly, and I was partially numbed by the cold. My head hurt, and I had a bump where I had smacked into the tree, but I ignored it and started walking. I ended up at the hospital.

I stood there in the middle of the street, looking up at the building, a feeling of dread washing over me. "Well, it's now or never, you said you wanted to know what was wrong," I said softly to myself. I blinked and took three steps to my left just in time to avoid a screaming ambulance racing to the hospital. Inside was a lady who was covered in blood and unconscious. Her breathing was labored, and blood lined the breathing mask she had over her face. "Hey, get out of the way kid," one of the paramedics said gruffly as they carted her inside. I followed behind slowly, watching the doctors hover around her, and take her off to the ER.

"She's not going to make it," I said softly to myself. I snapped my attention away from what I had seen and walked up to the receptionist. "Is there any chance I can talk to Dr. Doctor?" I asked.

'Well, I'm afraid was just called into an emergency. What is the nature of your problem? Did you need to set up an appointment?" she said monotonously.

"No, I don't need an appointment, I just wanted to know what was wrong with me." I said quickly. "I was in the hospital just earlier today, 'cause I got sick on Tuesday. They didn't tell me what was wrong, and my parents are flipping out on me."

She gave me a skeptical, bored look, then frowned, "If you want to see the doctor, you'll have to take a seat in the waiting room," she said finally, directing me to some chairs.

"Bitch," I mumbled under my breath as I walked over to the seats she pointed out.

"What did you say?"

"Nothing, I said I have an itch," I said over my shoulder.

"Oh."

I sat in the waiting area for a little bit, staring blankly at the coffee table littered with year old copies of _Times_ and _National Geographic_, though not one of them had any pictures with topless tribal girls. After about ten minutes of nearly silent boredom, I noticed the receptionist leave her post with a coffee mug in hand. Behind the receptionist station was a locked room in which they kept all their files.

_If I can't talk to someone, I could always just look it up, right_? I asked myself, as I wandered over to the desk. I tested the door, finding it locked, then knelt down in front of it and pulled out a paperclip, magnet, and stick of chewing gum out of my pocket. The gum went in my mouth, and I went to work on the door. I quickly stuck the paperclip in the keyhole and tweaked it around a few times, then hovered the magnet on the side of the lock. After about half a minute, there was a click, and the door was unlocked. I slipped inside, and plastered the gum over the latch of the door to prevent it from closing all the way. No way was I going to get locked in a closet.

I turned and started looking for my name, _McKormick, Kenneth. _I pulled out the rather large and extensive file and laid it out on the floor. "Wow, they kept a record of all this?" I said, flipping through several of my childhood misfortunes, sicknesses and even some deaths. There was even a several page report on the incident where my heart was replaced with a potato and I exploded in the ER. I felt a chill run down my spine when I flipped to the last series of reports. The report for Tuesday was a small group of pages clipped together at the back of the file. I pulled it out and flipped through it. most of what was on the pages was doctor language, which I only knew a little bit of, but what I did get made me drop the pages. My hand firmly clamped over my mouth in an attempt to stifle the urge to throw up. It didn't work.

After a little while, I recovered enough to take a quick peek outside. The receptionist wasn't at her desk again, and I was able to slip out undetected. On my way out, I removed the gum wad, and closed the door silently, hearing the soft resonating click as the door locked on its own. I got out from behind the desk just as she came back. She was accompanied by Dr. Doctor, and another doctor, both were spattered in blood, and looking rather depressed. "There was nothing we could do," I heard the second doctor say softly. I paused for only a second, just long enough to look back, then I stepped through the sliding glass doors back into the cold night.

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Please read and review, chapter three will be out soon!


	3. Over My Head

**South Park**

**Nine Lives**

**Chapter 3 – Over My Head**

(Kenny's POV)

It was well into the morning by the time I came out of the haze of delirium I had been in most of the night. I had wandered across all of South Park and back again, steering clear of my home, until finally I wound up at the bus stop. No one was there, it was Saturday morning, and most likely everyone was still asleep in their beds.

Everything was numb. I couldn't help but feel almost betrayed in some way. I felt nauseous, but had already thrown up a number of times during the night. Every time the urge came, all I could do was gag on what little I did not have in my stomach. Even the cold didn't seem to touch me. I knew I was going to die.

Over the next several weeks, the numbness ebbed away and was replaced by depression which continued to eat away at me. I spent days on end locked in my room, without eating or going outside. I lack the will and motivation to do anything.

Finally, my friends came and forced me out of my seclusion. It was Kyle who was the first to ask me why I was so down, though of course any compassion showed by the Jew was shot down almost immediately by Cartman. He responded for me saying 'He's so fuckin' poor, he can't afford to be happy. Ain't that right Kenny?' I hate that fat ass so much, damnit I hate him, but I couldn't even muster up the motivation to retaliate. Instead all I could do was shrug my shoulders and go along with their lame attempt at cheering me up.

The day dragged, like so many others before it. I found myself restless the whole time, and bored with Stan and Kyle's sympathy and worry. I felt almost physically sick any time Cartman would open his mouth, especially when he started in on counting the ways I can die. I felt tense, and anxious, tired, and just about ready to lose it. It also felt like I had an itch but I couldn't find the right source, and when I got close enough to finding some relief, something always seemed to take its place. Half way through the day, I thought I was starting to lose my mind. Everything seemed out of focus, and my thoughts kept wandering back to those papers, and the sick feelings I had.

"So are you going to come back to school Kenny?" Kyle asked.

"Huh? Oh, yeah, sure." I responded half-heartedly. We had ended the day at Shakey's Pizza, and were heading back to our respective homes. "See you tomorrow," I said as we parted ways. I turned and headed for my house.

Again, by sheer luck, I made it to my house alive and in one piece. I frowned and looked back at the trains whizzing by from the safety of the front walk way. "Strange," I said to myself and entered the house. The whole place was quiet, a rather somber air filtered through the living room. No one was home I guessed and went to my room, closing the door behind me.

I pulled the old blanket that covered my window tighter over the opening to block out as much light as I could, then flopped down on the bed. I started recounting the 37 holes in the ceiling, then looked over at a little rat that was sitting on his haunches at the far corner of m bed. He had a rather expectant gleam in his beady black eyes, and almost seemed to be asking why I was there.

Why was I there? I asked myself and turned my attention back to the ceiling. It had been almost a month now since the last time I was killed in some freak accident or another. A month? I wondered if that was a record for me. 'wait,' I thought to myself and sat up in bed, 'every time I die, I come back, and I'm usually just fine.' I got out of bed and pulled up the covers to peer underneath. "GAH! Get away you stupid fuckin' rat!" I yelled out as a rat jumped at my face from under the bed and started scratching me. A group of the squeaking little rodents swarmed out from under the seclusion of the underneath of the bed and scattered into the walls. I pulled the one off of me and hissed at it, then tossed the thing over into a pile of laundry in one corner. I went back under the bed and retrieved a small box I had hidden there a couple years ago.

The metal box was small and covered with dust and what I could only guess was rat urine. I sneezed, then knocked set the box down on the bed and pulled out a set of keys from my pocket. I opened the box to reveal a pocket knife I had received a couple years ago from Stan's Uncle Jimbo, and a taser I had um, acquired from his shop.

I pulled out the taser and brushed some dust off of its black surface. It was small, but I knew it packed a punch, and could definitely kill me if I let it. I frowned and pointed the thing awkwardly at myself, closed my eyes and pulled the switch. Nothing happened.

I opened one eye and looked at the device I had pointed at myself. I half expected to be dead right now and seeing the fires of Hell. At the very least, I would have thought there would have been some pain to drown out the numbness I had been feeling as of late, but no. Nothing at all.

"God damn mother-fuckin' piece of shit!" I yelled and chucked the thing into the closet, where it promptly exploded with a shower of bluish light. It didn't even make a fire. My next alternative was the knife. I picked it up out of the box and looked at it. I glided my finger across the edge of the metal and flipped the blade out of hiding. It was still sharp, I noted and delicately traced the sharpened edge. I could see my reflection in the steel of the blade. My distorted image looked tired and worn, sick, dying.

"It's merely an escape, not really a suicide," I said softly to myself. My hands were shaking some. "Not really suicide." I didn't feel convinced, but none the less I placed my blade against my wrist. I winced as the blade cut my skin, allowing my blood to flow freely. I gritted my teeth, but traced the blade across a new line on my wrist. I made a couple more shallow cuts before I finally stopped. My vision was growing a little hazy and I felt dizzy, but nothing else. I didn't feel the usual tug I was so familiar with, the one I felt right before I die. I frowned and set the knife down next to me, and watched the blood trickling from my wrist and down my arm. No, I wasn't feeling Death. If anything, I was feeling release. It felt almost good to bleed, to feel.

It made me forget why I did it in the first place.

Over the course of the week following, I returned to school. Everyone was a little shocked to see me, especially when I showed up to school wearing all black and grey. Stan and Kyle expressed their concerns for my new dress code, but I waved it off like it was nothing. Cartman on the other hand said, "Look who's decided to join the ranks of the faggy Goths! He locks himself away in the dank dark of the ghetto, the ghettoooo," he broke into song. I swung around, aiming for his head, but he caught my wrist. "Too slow poor boy."

I winced, and wrenched my arm away from him, "Fuck you fat-ass." I gripped my arm and stared off the other way, ignoring their presence until the bus came to cart us to school. Half way to school, I noticed a sticky wet sensation on my arm, and looked down. My sleeve was soaked through with blood, and it was trickling down my arm. I clenched it tight, hoping to get the bleeding to stop. By the time the bus pulled up to the school, I was in an almost dream like state, but I had managed to stop the bleeding for the most part.

I raced to the bathroom as soon as I was off the bus, breaking away from my friends, who must have thought I was ditching them or something. Once I made it to the bathroom, I washed off as much blood as I could and wrapped my wrist with some bandage I had hidden in my bag. "That should keep it from bleeding again," I said softly to myself and inspected my shirt. I had gotten a fair amount of blood on the sleeve around my wrist, but luckily it didn't look like too much, and my clothing was black, so it didn't show up too much.

I exited the bathroom and made my way to my first period class. I found myself dozing through the whole lecture, and felt very lucky that I sat towards the back of the room and just under the teacher's radar. I skimmed through the first several periods of the day like that, then about lunch time I started to feel a little more awake. I sat down at our table and waited for Stan, Kyle and Cartman to make their appearances. After about five minutes of waiting, I heard Stan talking on about something that was going on between him and his long time infatuation, Wendy Testaberger. Kyle was right there with him, listening, though not really seeming all that into it. I knew he didn't really care much for Wendy, and the popular rumor in the school now was that not only was she a slut with guys, but she also was willing to put out with chicks.

I spotted them coming over, and waited, my eyes quickly scanning over the rest of the cafeteria until I finally spotted Cartman in line with Butters. I could only assume by the grin on his face and the panicked look on Butters that Cartman was hustling him for his spot in line, and was telling some dramatic lie to scare the other boy.

"Hey Kenny," I heard Kyle say as he plopped his tray down on the table and sat across from me. Stan took the seat next to him and started in on his food. I reached over and snagged a few French fries from Kyle's tray. "Hey you guys," I answered. It was so routine. Kyle gave me a disapproving look, but ignored the urge to complain about my stealing his food. We all knew that since we were in high school, there were no lunch programs, and thus I went without lunch most days. It was really kind of sad. In grade school, lunch was the one meal I was guaranteed in a day. I popped the fries in my mouth, and stared blankly at the table. Stan had started droning on about his life with Wendy again, a subject I usually wouldn't touch with a ten foot pole.

"Hey, you guys, seriously," Cartman interrupted everyone's thoughts as he plopped down next to me, almost shoving me from my seat in the process. "I convinced Butters that there were starving children in South Park, and that he could save them by giving me his lunch. Isn't that awesome?"

"Not really Cartman. It's kinda wrong," Kyle said, narrowing his vibrant green eyes in disgust. I looked over at Cartman, but didn't say anything, half wondering if it would be possible to sneak some food off the fat-ass. He didn't need it all anyways.

Just my luck, I made it through lunch only managing to snag what I could from Kyle. The one attempt I made at Cart man's lunch wound up rewarding me with a punch to the stomach, a string of insults, and the luxury of watching Cartman eat most of what food there was and then toss the rest. God, if I wasn't trying to ditch the poor sad fuck image, I would have dove in the trash after it.

After lunch hour was over, I started feeling the nagging depression lingering just under the surface. It grew until it was all I could pay attention to. Everything else around me faded, and all I found myself doing was staring at the clock, waiting impatiently for the second hand to move just one more space forward in time. I winced, a sick feeling rising from my fairly empty stomach. I fought back the nausea, and realized that not only was I feeling sick and depressed, I was also craving something. My mind was telling me that I wanted to feel something else. I wanted my release.

As soon as seventh period was over, I wandered aimlessly back to my locker and took out the pocket knife, along with the book I would need for my next class. My mind felt like it was on auto-pilot. The only thing I could focus on was the knife and the blood. I felt like I was sleep walking. It took a minute to make it to the bathroom, since chicks don't know how to share the fuckin' hall, but when I arrived, I was glad to find the guy's room empty. I locked myself in one of the stalls, and rolled up one of my shirt sleeves, and removed the bandages I wore around my wrist. I stared at the scars there for a moment, mesmerized by what they meant and the slight rush of pleasure they promised me. Then I quickly opened the pocket knife and ever so gently ran it over one of the scars, reopening the shallow wound, and allowing my blood to flow freely again. It was almost as soothing as Heaven.

I don't know whether I just spaced out or totally blacked out, but the sound of the bell ringing overhead caused me to snap back to attention. Looking down at my wrist, I saw blood leaking out of the wound, and pooling on the floor. "Shit," I muttered to myself and started wiping it up, then started dabbing the blood off my hand and wrist. After I got mostly cleaned up, I removed some clean bandages from my pocket and quickly wrapped my wrist, replaced my sleeve into its proper places, and flushed all the bloodied toilet paper and paper towels. I felt dizzy, spacey really, as I made my way late to class. I didn't care though, I was on high. The rest of the day passed swiftly, my mind was unfocused and I listened to the lectures half in dream land.

I wonder how long this will last. . .

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Please read and review. I love them little reviews, I love them good. squeaky Chapter four will be out soon!


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